Tom Holt: Djinn Rummy

Jane frowned. “I don’t think you’re a genie at all,” she said. “I think you’re actually the imaginary friend I had when I was five, only grown-up. You’re just as irritating as he was, and you’ve got the same knack of poking your finger in your ear and wiggling it about when you’re talking.”

“Do I do that?” The genie looked at its hand. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Have you seen the length of my claws? How come I don’t lacerate my eardrums?”

Jane shrugged. “That’s your problem, surely. Look if you really are a genie and you’ve been sent to make me change my mind—”

“Sent? Who by?”

“Search me. Is there anybody who sends genies, or do they just turn up? No, forget it, no offence but I’m really not interested. It’s been lovely meeting you, really it has, but it’s time I wasn’t here.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.” Jane looked at the floor. “I take it,” she said, “the bottle was empty. Apart from you, of course.”

The genie nodded; or at least, it shimmered up and then down again, like an indecisive smoke signal. “You want some aspirins, I take it?”

“Please.”

“Your wish is my—”

“Hold it.”

“Shit.” An expression of disgust flitted across the genie’s face. “I thought you’d say that,” it muttered. “Perceptive, aren’t I?”

Jane leant forward, her chin cupped in her hand. “My wish is your command?”

The genie winced. “Bloody marvellous,” it said. “Humans, all they’re interested in is one thing. My mother was right, it’s wishes, wishes, wishes all the time with you people. Makes me sick.”

“Three wishes?”

“Absolutely correct. Still, since you’re absolutely dead set on killing yourself, there really isn’t much point, is there? Unless you want a hand getting the job done, that is.” The genie grinned toothily. “In which case,” it said, “absolutely delighted to oblige. Fourteen years in an empty bottle, one thing you do get is decidedly peckish.”

Jane shook her head. “That,” she said, “was before I had three wishes from a genuine genie. You’ve got to admit, it alters things.”

“Up to a point,” the genie said. “I mean, we’re talking parameters of the possible here. There are very strict rules about what we are and are not allowed to do for clients.”

“I’ll bet.”

“So strict,” the genie went on, shimmering persuasively, “as to make the wishes virtually worthless, in my opinion. Not worth the hassle. Forget all about it if I were you.”

“I think I’ll give them a try, thanks all the same.”

“Gosh, there’s a train just coming in, if you’re quick you could jump under it and—”

“Three wishes,” Jane said firmly. “Agreed?”

The genie sighed. “In which case,” it said, “you’d better have one of these.”

There was a rustle of pages, and a book appeared in Jane’s lap. She picked it up and squinted at the spine:

OWNER’S MANUAL

“Demeaning, I call it,” the genie muttered. “I mean, owner, for God’s sake. Makes me sound like a blasted lawn-mower.”

Congratulations! You are now the owner of a Model M27 “Gentle Giant” general service domestic and industrial genie. Provided it is properly maintained and only genuine replacement parts are used (NB. use of non-standard parts may invalidate your warranty) your genie should provide you and your civilisation with a lifetime of cheerful and near omnipotent service—

“Gentle giant my arse,” the genie interrupted. “Well, giant maybe, but gentle…”

Jane read on for a while, and then closed the book. “Three wishes,” she said.

“That’s right. You saw the bit about the "Wish By" date, by the way? Very important, that.”

“Very well,” Jane went on, “I’ll have the first one now, please.”

“Fire away.”

“I’d like,” Jane said, “another twelve million wishes.”

The genie’s head jerked upright. “Now just a cotton-picking minute,” it complained, “that’s not fair. There’s no way…”

“Why not?” Jane smirked. “Completely legitimate request, according to this book.”

“Rubbish. Like I said, there are strict rules.”

Jane nodded. “I agree,” she said. “Here they are on page four, paragraph two, three lines up from the bottom. Want to have a look?”

“I know the rules, thank you,” said the genie icily.

“As follows,” Jane continued. “One, no wishes that change the very fabric of reality. Well, that’s OK, if I can have three wishes I can have three billion, it’s all the same in principle.”

“Matter of opinion,” grunted the genie.

“Two,” Jane said firmly, “no wishes beyond the genie’s power to fulfil. Obviously no worries on that score.”

“I’ve got a bad back, mind,” the genie interjected. “Gives me one hell of a lot of jip in the winter months, my back does.”

“And finally,” Jane said, “rule three, all wishes to be used within three hundred years of first acquiring the genie.” Jane glanced at her watch. “By my reckoning that gives me till half past twelve on the sixteenth of June 2295. Agreed?”

“Twenty past twelve, I make it.”

“Then twenty past twelve it shall be.” Jane closed the book. “Nothing in there that says I can’t wish for more wishes. And if with my next wish I wish for another nine trillion and four wishes, there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Is there?”

The genie scowled. “I think this is probably something of a grey area, interpretation-wise,” it said. “However, as a gesture of goodwill, would you accept six wishes in full and final settlement?”

“No.”

“You’re not a lawyer by any chance, are you?”

“That’s a horrible thing to say about anybody.”

“True.” The genie scratched the back of its head, and for a few moments bright sunlight seeped through the gashes made by its claws in the glittering air. “All right then, tell you what I’ll do. All the wishes you want for three years, how about that?”

Jane shook her head. “For life,” she replied. “But I promise I won’t wish for anything too yuk, provided there’s not an emergency or something.”

“God, you drive a hard bargain.”

“I know.”

“Can I go now?” The genie lifted its arm and sniffed. “I mean, I’ll be there as soon as you call, word of honour, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d just spare me a few minutes. You know, to freshen up, brush my teeth, that sort of thing. I won’t be long.”

“That’s all right.” Jane considered. “What’s your name, by the way?”

The genie looked embarrassed; that is, the million billion minuscule points of light of which it was composed flickered red, one after the other, all in the space of a fraction of a second. “Just call me Genie,” it said quickly. “That’s what everybody else does, and it’s much—”

“Name.”

The genie dimmed. “Kawaguchiya Integrated Circuits III,” it mumbled.

“Kawaguchiya Integrated Circuits?”

"Fraid so.” The genie nodded stroboscopically. “Commercial sponsorship, you see. Pays for all the running repairs, plus a twice-yearly check-up and insurance. People call me Goochie for short. If they dare,” it added. “And even then, never more than twice. Myself, I prefer the acronym. It’s more me.”

“Kick?”

“Kiss,” Kiss replied. “The C is soft as in coelacanth, certain and celery. Like I said, though, just plain Genie does me absolutely fine.”

“With the light brown hair, huh?”

Kiss sighed and gathered together his photons with all the dignity he could muster. “All things considered, I was a fool to leave the bottle. Be seeing you.”